


The Little Green Light

by FabulaRasa



Category: DCU, DCU (Animated), DCU (Comics)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-20
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-24 21:34:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3785038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FabulaRasa/pseuds/FabulaRasa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce lets himself push back a door of possibility he really ought to have known better than to try. Everybody makes mistakes, but how the hell is it that people seem to keep having them with him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Kind of a work-out for a Tuesday. What did that bag ever do to you?"

Bruce ignored him and resumed his rhythmic punching of the bag. He was hitting so hard he could feel the reverb in his spine with every blow, but his only need was to hit it harder. He hadn't wrapped his hands as well as he should have, but he was glad of it; he could feel the bruising on his knuckles, and knew his hands were bleeding under the tape. He knew Clark could see it too.

"Rough day, I'm guessing," Clark said, in a quieter and less jocular tone. Bruce caught the bag and rested his head against it, for just a minute. He could feel the sweat snake down his scalp, the back of his neck, the side of his face. 

"You might say that," Bruce replied, hoarsely. He had lost track of how long he had been down here, beating hell out of this bag. 

_You know I have to go now_ , she had said, sitting on the side of the bed, and he had said nothing. Nothing, he had found nothing to say to that. That would have been the time, if ever there was a time; that would have been the time to come up with every reason why she didn't need to leave, why she should stay there with him. His only thought was to pour every reason, every fantasy, into one last kiss, and he had leaned forward to put his face next to hers and she had stopped him with a hand on his bare chest. Stopped him dead. 

_If I kiss you again I don't walk out of here_ , she had said. _Then don't walk out_ , he had tried to say, but his throat was too tight for words, and her face was already closed to him anyway. Her impossibly sad eyes rested on his, and then there was the brush of a caress against the side of his face, and she was gone, and he had failed. 

He landed another bone-crunching punch on the bag, and another, not even lifting his exhausted head off it. "I'm a fuck," he said, into the bag.

"What? Bruce. No you're not. You're a good and decent person who—"

"No," he said harshly. "That's not what I meant. I mean, I'm a fuck. I'm not the one you go home to. That people go home to," he amended, because it occurred to him how Clark would hear that sentence, and the last thing he needed today was dealing with Clark's misplaced guilt. Though sure, that was part of it, too, that even Clark. . ."I'm a fuck," he repeated. "Not the one people love. I'm. . . something else."

Clark was quiet, and Bruce rested his head on the bag. "That bad then," Clark said, his voice soft. 

"That bad," Bruce said. 

Clark didn't say anything; didn't try to pry or cajole or pretend, and that was the great thing about Clark, that was what made him so easy to be around. "This might be a bad time," he said eventually. "But Lois sent me over here with a mission."

"And what would that be." He was still clutching onto the bag, swaying slightly with it, not entirely certain his legs would support him over to the bench. 

"She has it in her head she'd like to invite you and the boys over for Thanksgiving. Well, she'd actually like to invite quite a few people. She has. . . ideas about holidays," he said with a wince, and Bruce gave a grim laugh. 

"Yeah," Clark sighed ruefully. "I know. But it could be fun. You and me and your family and Barry and Iris and Hal if he's not offworld, and Oliver and—"

"No," Bruce said, more sharply than he had intended. 

"Oh come on. It's just for one afternoon. Just think about it, will you? It's not like it would be that bad. You can hide in the kitchen with Lois, who is having some sort of I don't even know what, some misbegotten 1950s Norman Rockwell fantasy idea about this dinner, and I'm not sure she is remembering that she does not in fact like to cook or know the first thing about cooking, but that's not the sort of thing I think I should point out."

Bruce wasn't listening, but that was okay, he knew Clark was just talking to talk, to soothe him. Knew Clark had heard the anger in his voice, seen the spike of his heartrate at the mention of the last name he wanted to hear. He would have to control himself better than that. He had a lifetime in front of him, of learning to control himself. He shut his eyes and swayed with the bag. All these hours of beating himself senseless, and his chest still ached and twisted, his insides still bled from it.

"I came by last night," Clark was saying. "You didn't answer your cell, and Lois wanted to nail down these invites. I couldn't find you. You weren't on patrol, Alfred said."

"No. I wasn't on patrol."

"Is that what she told you," Clark said, in a different voice. "The person you were with last night, did she tell you that you were a fuck?"

Bruce cracked an eye. "How do you know it was a she?"

"Oh," Clark said, and he looked a little uncomfortable. "I didn't—it was just a guess."

"No it wasn't. If you'd been guessing, you'd have said it was a he. How did you know I slept with a woman last night?"

Clark was silent a minute before he answered. "You showered this morning," he said. "Very carefully. But. . . my senses are. . . very acute."

Bruce raised his head. "Sixteen hours later, and you can tell that I had sex? And the gender of the person I had sex with?"

"Well," Clark said, and he looked even more uncomfortable. "I can't always tell the gender. If the sex was. . . passionate. . . enough, then sure, I can tell."

Bruce was studying him. "So, let me understand this," he said. "Every single day, as you're walking around, you can tell who has had sex recently and who has not? That has got to be a fairly high percentage of the people you encounter regularly. Does the entire world just smell like sex to you, all the time?"

Clark smiled, a bit sheepishly. "At times. It took me a while, growing up, before I figured out that that was what I was. . . sensing."

"How incredibly disturbing."

"That's one word for it. Look, Bruce. . . whatever happened last night, don't you think getting together with friends this week and hanging out, maybe forgetting your troubles for just a few hours—don't you think that would be a good thing?"

He gave another short laugh. "Trust me, that would be the last thing I need."

"I'm not talking about a big crowd, just close friends. Just the League."

"Yes," he said. "That's exactly the problem."

He had said too much, because he forgot that as sharp as Clark's senses were, his mind was even sharper. He saw the pieces click together for Clark, saw the moment it happened. The name Bruce had bridled at, the gender of the person he had slept with, the problem of being with the League. 

"You didn't," he said softly.

"Fuck off," Bruce growled.

"Bruce. . ."

"Leave it."

"Jesus Christ," Clark said. He sat down, slowly. "What in the world made you think. . . why on earth would any part of you think. . . What were you thinking?"

Bruce wanted to laugh. _I don't know, Clark, I just thought having my chest ripped open sounded like a fun way to spend my Monday, what about you?_ "It was a mistake," he said finally. "Or don't you believe in those anymore?"

That silenced Clark, as he knew it would. It was a little unfair, but he was not in the mood to give a shit. Besides, their own mistake had been long before Clark was even with Lois, which wasn't to say Clark's easy recovery didn't sting, a bit. He reached for the towel and wiped off his face. "It was a mistake," he repeated. Funny how people kept having them with him. Maybe he was the mistake. The indiscretion. The fuck. Fun for a ride, hell of a lay, but no one you would want to keep around, if you know what I mean. 

He tossed the towel aside, and tried not to see her face, or the regret in her eyes. _It wasn't like that_ , said another voice inside him. _You know it wasn't. It's just an impossible situation._

* * *

"Hah! Too slow," Dinah called, and he didn't waste breath on the rejoinder, but aimed right for the small opening she had left in her lower right middle. She blocked him effortlessly, but he ducked and spun and got a hit in on her calf. Not where he had been aiming, and not enough to destabilize her, not by a long shot, but every little bit helped. 

"Fast enough, evidently," he grunted, and they spun the other direction, circling each other. It was just the two of them in her dojo, and the hour was getting late, but neither of them showed any intention of stopping. It was rare enough they got to do this — the League's two most skilled combat experts, going head-on against each other like this, no one to stop them, and on the other side of the circle an opponent who didn't require any holding back, any leashing of power, who would call forth every instinct and push every limit. He was sweating hard, and so was she. 

"Time," he called, and he tossed his stick aside for a moment and pulled off his loose tank. The crisp air of the dojo felt good against his bare skin, rejuvenating him.

"No fair."

"You're welcome to join me." 

"I'm good," she said with a smirk. She was down to just sports bra and the loose-fitting pants they were both wearing, and she held her stick in the down position, waiting for him. She was less winded than he. In this next bout he would have to make his greater muscle mass count for something, or she would wear him down. She knew what few of Bruce's opponents ever did—to beat Bruce, you didn't have to win; you just had to make sure he didn't. 

"All right," he said, toweling off. "Let's go."

"You sure you don't want to lie down a few minutes?"

"Very funny."

"You're looking a little flushed." 

"You done?" And he arced through the air and dove in with a perfect slice, that she countered just as perfectly, and they were off again. He lost himself in the rhythm of it, the sweet symmetry, the way their bodies spoke past the boundaries of their brains. It was meditation of a sort he did not often get, and he felt the core of him slow and center even as his heartrate accelerated with the exercise.

Only maybe his meditation was a bit too deep, because he felt a certain exultation that he was slowly pushing her back toward the wall, slowly closing off her avenues of escape, and then with one final twist he had her against the wall, and reached for the blow that would finish her, and found. . . the stick at his throat.

"That's game," she said, her own voice gone hoarse, and he smiled—he had not seen how she had drawn him, how she had lured him. He was still pinning her shoulders to the wall. 

"In the field, the force of this pin would have cracked your collarbone," he said. "You wouldn't have been able to make that thrust."

Her smile was wicked. "But we aren't in the field. And field-fighting is all you've been doing for months now. Your rust is showing."

"Is that a comment on my age?"

"It's a comment on your rust," she said, poking at his middle with the stick that had been at his throat. He grabbed at the stick. She grinned, and shifted his other hand off her shoulder, which for a half-second threw his weight slightly forward, and then. . .

They froze, so near. He was beyond thought. There was a mouth on his, tentative. His arms slid around her. They were both slick with sweat. They smelled like a barn. Heat flooded his cock. 

"Shit," she said. "Shit. I'm sorry. Shit." She was pushing away from the wall, away from him. It had been the adrenaline, of course. Hours of this, and it had crazed their brains. Crazed hers, anyway. She had made a mistake, and she had felt his eager response. 

"Here, hydrate yourself," she said from the other end of the room. She was pulling water bottles out of the fridge by the small kitchen. His head was still down, looking at the place where she had been standing. "That's your problem, you know. You don't hydrate enough, and it slows you down over the long haul." 

She was making pleasant conversation, like it hadn't happened. "I'm thinking I might make some noodles," she said. "You want some?"

He shook his head, beyond shamed. "I should. . . go," he said. 

"You don't have to do that," she said, her voice gone softer. 

It wasn't a door he had ever let himself push back, in his mind. He had guarded himself so strictly against it. If he were to let himself notice, truly see her. . . Of course he knew she was beautiful, of course he found her beautiful, desirable even, but what male would not? But that had been before he knew the exact taste of her lips. Now the thought of it, of her, was thrumming in his brain, and places considerably lower. The pants were. . . very loose-fitting. For God's sake. At some point he was going to have to turn around from the wall. 

"I'm sorry," she said, even more quietly. 

"It's fine."

"Please just forget it."

"Is that what you want me to do?" He hadn't meant that to sound quite so harsh, so angry. 

"Not really." It was the sadness in her voice that made him turn. She was setting the water bottles down on the counter. "But. . . I don't live at this dojo. I live. . . in my apartment. And I don't live there alone. Well. I don't always live there alone."

"And how many times," he said. He felt the shake in his voice. "How many times has Oliver betrayed your trust? Why is it that he's not there tonight?"

It was beyond cruel of him, but she regarded him with steady eyes. "Because I asked him not to be," she said. "Because we're taking a bit of a break. As you well know. None of which has anything to do with this tonight."

He bowed his head. "Forgive me," he said. He replaced his stick against the wall. He would go home, and take a shower, and they would never speak like this to each other again. But he had seen it in her eyes, for just a brief flash there—she wanted him as much as he wanted her. He was pulling on his sweat-soaked shirt. He would not cross that line again. But he would remember her mouth against his for the rest of his life. 

"One last round," she said. "To clear the air."

He arched a brow at her. "Some people talk out their feelings."

"Fortunately we're not some people."

"Let's go," he said, seizing his stick again. 

Her smile was slow and deep, and she took her position in the center of the circle. They were tigers circling, searching for the hit. Neither would strike first: long lean wary motions, circling, circling. And then he surged across at her, and she was ready for him, and this time they were grunting aloud with it, this time they were not friendly sparring partners. Her nails scraped his cheek to the blood on the downside of her kick.

"Bitch," he muttered, and she laughed, but his next lunge caught her. 

They were rolling on the floor now, rolling toward the head of the stairs, but he had a foot out to stop them. She brought her stick down on the leg that braced them—a hair away from breaking the shin with the force of her blow, and he cried out at it. She didn't stop though. For a breath of a pause he had her pinned.

"Stop taking it out on me," he gritted out. Her eyes came back into focus, her face softened.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. He shifted his weight to let her up, and she sighed, began to raise up.

"Sorrier that you fell for that," he said, thunking the stick back against her chest until it floored her—a clear win this time. He could hear the sound of her head connecting with the plank floor.

"I win," he said, straddling her.

"Feel better?"

"That depends on what I win."

"My respect."

He dropped his eyes, and rose off her lightly. He extended a hand to pull her up, and she took it. "Thanks for the work-out," she said.

"Anytime."

"All right," she said, and then she was moving into his arms again, her mouth was on his again. 

"If you're going to ask me to stop—" he gasped.

"Not this time," she said, and that was about when the evening. . . it was like when he was young and sitting in a movie theater, watching Han Solo punch the Millennium Falcon into hyperdrive, and all the stars became blurred rectangles of light. The popcorn had fallen from his mouth, and he had thought _whoa_ , blown away by the special effects that today would hardly make him glance up from his book. But that was what it was like—the effect of everything speeding up and blurring at the same time. 

They were rolling again, somehow on the floor again. "I have a bed," she panted, when they could find moments for air.

"That's for the second time," he said, eating her mouth again. They were scratching, clawing, pushing. Two kicks got them free of their pants. 

"Foreplay's for later too," she managed, curling her legs around him, her arms.

"Good enough," he said. He was so hard, he didn't remember being this hard with another person in God knew how long. "Can we—"

"Let's just fuck, come on." Her breath was hot in his ear. "Come on, please."

"Yeah," he grunted. "All right, I—God—" He hooked a hand in her underwear—somehow those amazing legs had pushed his down already—and pulled it down and God, God he wanted to bury his face in her, but also his cock, and—

"That's it, yeah," she panted, and he rubbed the wet center of her with his cock, sliding the tip back and forth. He felt her shudder at it. "Jesus Christ Bruce, stop fucking around, give us what we both need here."

"You got it," he groaned, and pushed all the way in, one long smooth wicked thrust, and she arched back, panted at it. He was just on the edge of too big for that maneuver, and never would have if she hadn't asked. He got his hands on her ass, and her hands were on his, pulling him in, and now they were just fucking, fucking like animals here on the floor, and he could finally, finally let himself ache for her as he now knew he had from the moment he had seen her.

He bent back. "What are you. . ." she murmured, but he kept her legs curled around him as he bent. He couldn't thrust quite as deep like this, but this gave him room to press his thumb on her clit, which was stiff and thick for him, God but he wanted to lick it. 

"Holy fuck," she said. "Can I just—"

"Yeah," he panted, and he felt her come, heard the low growl of it in her throat, the first clenching spasms around his cock. She was barely through the first waves when she pulled herself up on her abdominals alone, pushing him back, riding up on him, their bodies still joined. He was flat on his back and now she was riding him. 

"Now you," she whispered, giving him the sweet slide of cunt he needed, the friction.

"Jesus Christ—Dinah—" They were teenagers, they were idiots. No protection, no thought of anything but ripping each other's clothes off and fucking. And he was about to come inside her. "I can't—I can't—Jesus _FUCK!_ " His orgasm ripped through him, spilled out him hot, so hot, he could feel how much it was, how it kept going on. "Oh fuck, oh fuck," he was moaning, and he felt her come again with him, felt her muscles milking him. There was so much of it, so much—sliding out onto the floor from the join of their bodies. 

Her fingers were bruising the back of his neck where they held on. "Don't you ever stop fucking me, goddamn you" she said, and "I won't, I won't," he husked, as their bodies shook and trembled, lakes of sweat and come and sweet juice. God, he needed his mouth on her. 

"Bed," she whispered against the side of his neck, and at last, at last his greater muscle mass was of some use in this room, because he lifted her, still joined to him, and carried her across the room to the divider that hid the futon and spartan sleeping area from the rest of the place. 

"Okay, that's quite the move, I'm impressed," she said, and he laughed as they somewhat collapsed onto the bed together, because the landing was not the most elegant part of that. 

"Pardon my rust," he said, and she laughed again. 

And just as it always was with her, so it was here. He had found an equal partner in the combat circle, someone who could match him move for move, and the same was true here. He found an equal hunger in her, an equal thirst—greater even. Always before, in bed with someone, he had held back, in one way or another. Held back how much he wanted, held back physically, held back himself, because here he could be fully Bruce, fully himself, all parts of him. 

Her capacity for orgasm definitely exceeded his. They would sleep in fitful stretches, and then wake—he would be caressing her back awake, or her kisses would be traveling up his side, and they would be back on. It was a lifetime of love in one night, and he tried not to think about what that meant. At some point he had her spread across the bed, limbs languid and splayed—and holy God, he had seen beautiful women, but nothing, nothing like her perfection in all its scars and muscle notches and taut flesh. "Don't move," he whispered.

"Mm. Not sure I could," she whispered back.

"Let's test that," he said, and he moved a delicate fold out of the way with just his fingertip. He gave her only the smallest of licks, just light touches really, just to see how much she could stay still for. He wanted to bring her off this time with only small tapping touches and flicks of tongue, but he knew she liked it rough too—not too long before she had ridden his hand and his cock at once, and he had given her the brutal friction she had needed. 

"You can come again," she had said, and like that was what his body had been waiting for, he had spasmed into her, spilling in surges, no more in control of this than he had been anything else this whole evening. So that was why he wanted to see her come unglued a little bit. 

"You're moving," he scolded.

"You're being annoying."

"Mm. That's the price you pay." The light taps of his tongue were stiffening her clit, he could see. "You want one more?" he whispered.

They finally collapsed close to dawn, and when he woke. . . when he woke it was to full light, and Dinah sitting on the edge of the futon, away from him. He reached a hand for her, and she turned and studied him. He wondered if he looked like her: bruised and stubble-burned, the most perfect thing he had ever woken up next to, and the most honest. 

"You sleep," she said. She had already slipped on a shirt. "Nobody will be by here until later today, rest all you want."

"Listen to me," he said. His voice was sleep-hoarse, sex-rough. It wasn't like he wanted his voice to sound, not like he had planned any of this to be. "Don't try to tell me this was a mistake. This is the way it always should have been, for years. This is what's right. We are what's right. You know that. Don't try to tell me you're going back to—"

"Stop," she said, and he did, at the one syllable of command. 

She just looked at him. "You know I have to go now," was all she said. Because she was a thin steel blade of honor, right at her core, and all Oliver's careless disregard for that honor would not do it away, and never, never had he known what it was to love someone like this, than in the last few minutes when it could make no more possible difference to anyone. 

He had only reached for her, because if they couldn't have the lifetime that a just God would give them, they could have nine more seconds, and he would put a lifetime into nine seconds. But she rested a hand on his chest, stopping him. 

"If I kiss you again," she said, "I don't walk out of here."

His eyes said _Then don't walk out_ , but he would not betray her by saying it aloud. She was not so small as to be moved by argument or expostulation; she had made her decision, and he would abide it. He sat there and listened to the sound of her feet on the floor as she searched for her shoes, slipped on a jacket, padded down the stairs to the street level.

* * *

Thanksgiving with Clark and Lois eclipsed all his previous ideas of what a truly horrific evening could be, by an order of magnitude. Damian was already deeply sulky before they even got in the car to go, and the reason was not hard to find. Damian loved being around the League, but detested being treated as a child. He wanted to sit in the circle of warriors sharing battle stories, not sit at the foot of the table with a plate of mashed potatoes. Damian still found American food somewhere between confounding and disgusting, so watching him try to eat this meal would be fun; with any luck he wouldn't be too obvious about scraping it in the garbage. Tim's gloom was irretrievable by the time they were twenty minutes out of Gotham, so he would be receiving no assistance there. Tim just stared steadily out the window, quietly outraged that he was spending yet another holiday in Damian's irascible presence. 

_You and me both_ , Bruce wanted to say, but sulking was not available to him. 

Fortunately Clark and Lois's apartment was crowded and noisy enough that his boys' ill-humor was not too noticeable—or his own, for that matter. He had thought there was a good possibility Oliver and Dinah wouldn't show up, but of course they did. Oliver had gotten a head start on the drinking, it appeared, because by the time Bruce arrived he was launched into some ridiculous over-loud story, starring Oliver Queen of course, one hand on his drink, the other around Dinah's waist. Bruce considered going to the bathroom and quietly vomiting. 

His face was more a mask than it ever was in the cowl. Once or twice he caught Clark glancing at him, in apparent nervousness. That made Bruce so angry he had to set his drink down and walk out to the kitchen, where Lois and Barry were masterminding dinner. "Here, make yourself useful," Lois said, thrusting a bag of peppers at him. "Look out for those knives though—I got a new set of German ones, and they are wicked sharp. I dropped one on Clark's foot last night, and let's just say if it were anyone else we would still be in surgery. He was actually kind of pissed about it, which I think is unreasonable, it's not like I did it on purpose. Barry, hand me that balsamic?" 

Bruce chopped in dutiful silence at a counter out of her way. The kitchen was fine until Hal showed up to lean in the doorway and talk to Barry—loud and obnoxious as ever, oblivious to the fact that no one really wanted to talk to him. Bruce tossed his knife aside when he had finished his peppers and escaped back to the living room, but that was even worse—Dinah was talking to Clark and Oliver about something, but for a half second as he walked in her eyes rested on him, and it was like one of Lois's knives had sliced right through his middle. He had spent the last week telling himself it was fine, that he was fine, that it didn't matter. One shared momentary glance, and he knew the truth. He knew that it mattered. Would matter forever, for the rest of his life.

"Excuse me," he said to Iris, trying to make his way out the door. He had to get out of this apartment or die, had to breathe air. 

He made it to a stairwell, and braced himself against the wall. Somehow he had to go back in there, but not now, just not now. It was that moment of her looking at him, in a way that wouldn't allow either of them to tell any of the necessary lies to get through this day. Just that small glance that met his, and that had brushed against him like an embrace.

 _I can do this_ , he thought. If he could just get through today, then all the rest of the days would be easier. He pressed harder on the wall, wondering what it would feel like to be Clark, to be able to feel the steel joists and girders of the building shudder beneath his hands, to feel the whole edifice totter. Like Samson. He wished he could bring the building down on top of them, on top of all of them. Would the crushing weight of concrete stop the crushing weight in his chest?

"Bruce," said a soft voice beside him, and he turned his face away. 

"Please go."

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

He looked at her then, and he didn't ask how she had found him. He just knew he had to keep his hands on the wall. "Don't ask more of me than I can bear," he said hoarsely.

"You think it's any easier for me? You think I don't want what you want?" And her infinitely sad, infinitely patient eyes rested on his. 

How his hands left the wall he didn't know. He just knew they were around her, that he was crushing her to him, but that she was crushing him back just as strongly. _I'm sorry I'm sorry_ she kept saying, but then they were kissing and he was crushing the words out with his lips. 

They didn't say much of anything after that; they were all hands and hungry mouths, fumbling quickly with each other's clothes. He lifted her and propped her on the metal stair rail, and for any two normal people there was nothing about this situation that would work, but it was the two of them, so they could probably have sex anywhere. At this point, they were so frustrated they could probably have sex on the ceiling. 

He yanked down her underwear and knelt in front of her, and she gripped the metal rail until her knuckles were white. He buried his face in her, not able to wait, wanting only the taste of her on his tongue, all over his face. 

"Yes," she whispered, which was all he wanted to hear. He heard the sound of her head thunking against the wall as he licked her, and her legs curled around his back, dug in hard. He slid a finger in her, then two, and with his other hand he covered her mouth as her moans got louder. She came fast around his fingers, flowing into his mouth, and he nuzzled her through it, giving her the hard pressure he knew now that she loved. When he stumbled up, literally dizzy with it, with her, he had pushed down his own underwear with still-wet fingers and was pressing against her.

"Come on, baby," she said against his neck, pulling him into her, and it took him maybe five more thrusts to come—loud, echoing in the stairwell, his own slick mingling with hers. He could feel the tremble of her body around his—was that another orgasm, or just more of the first one? They clung to each other, shaking, still groaning, mouths just resting against each other. It was enough to breathe the same air. 

"Enough," he said. "Enough of this. Enough of being apart."

"Bruce. . ."

He kissed her again, and she licked along his jaw, licking off the taste of herself on his face, his face that he would never wash again. "Leave him," he said harshly. "Leave him today. Come home with me. Stay with me."

Her fingers stroked the side of his face, his hair, pulled his head onto her shoulder. "If we do that," she whispered. "We tear the League apart. You know that."

"Better the League than us."

"You don't mean that."

"Then tell me," he growled. "Tell me the truth. Tell me you don't lie in his arms and think about me, you tell me that."

She looked at him steadily. "Bruce. Listen to me. You want. . . you want it to be true that I love you and not him. You want it to be true that I love only you. I can't make that true. I never said I could make that true."

He shut his eyes and rested his forehead against hers. She had never lied to him. She wasn't lying now. Her fingers were still stroking his face, her lips brushing his. It did seem like the sort of truth she could have waited to articulate until his pants were no longer around his ankles.

"We have to go back," she whispered, and he nodded, but they made no move to go for long minutes. 

Back in Clark and Lois's apartment, the look on Clark's face was worth the whole agony of this shitty day. There was the slow swivel of Clark's head, the outraged widening of his eyes as he glared at Bruce. Of course Clark could smell the sex on him, on both of them. It had to be like running into a brick wall, the smell of the both of them combined. Clark might even find it difficult to digest his Thanksgiving dinner, much less sit at the same table with them. He would take perverse pleasure in passing Clark the gravy.

Bruce just smiled blandly back over top of his drink, and sat on the sofa listening to Hal and Oliver have some ridiculous argument about the Air Force's complicity in running CIA black sites.

"You're the last person I would have pegged as some pro-fascist military junta apologist," Ollie was saying, gesturing with a drink that sloshed onto Lois's carpet.

"Oh please, _I'm_ a fascist? Says the billionaire capitalist whose assets help maintain the greatest system of global inequality since—"

"Turkey's done!" Lois announced triumphantly, in a cloud of turgid black smoke from the kitchen. 

"Smells. . . fabulous, honey," Clark said weakly, and Damian could distinctly be heard to mutter, "what is the _matter_ with you people," in the small silence that followed. Tim slapped the back of his head, and Damian's hand closed on a cheese knife with murderous intent. Bruce knocked back the rest of his drink and started in on another. Drunk was the only way he was going to get through the rest of this day.

* * *

"Hey that looks good," said the smart-ass grin sliding into the booth beside him. "Bartender, I'll have what he's having. Let's see, that's. . . um, is that a double of self-pity, with a chaser of pointless anguish? Yeah, that sounds awesome, let me have some of that."

"Fuck off," Bruce said.

"And a happy Thanksgiving to _you_ ," he said, shrugging off his jacket, as though he had just been invited to stay. As through Bruce weren't four seconds away from reaching over and pulling his trachea out to crumble it in his fist. 

The whole point of coming to this bar had been to be away from anyone and everyone he knew. He had had Alfred take the boys back to Gotham after Thanksgiving dinner was finally, blessedly over, and he had made his way here, figuring no one would find him in this dive of a bar—figuring that no matter what else might be true in his life, he at least had the dignity of getting quietly drunk in a back-alley bar lost in some urban no-man's land. At least his life could give him that. But apparently not, not while Hal Jordan still drew breath. Was it wrong he had already figured out fourteen ways to fix that?

"Aw come on," Jordan was saying. "It can't be as bad as all that. It's the holidays, man! Or at least, kind of. Almost. Okay, whoa," he said, as the bartender put the bottle of Jameson Reserve on the table in front of them. "Um, okay. When I said I would have what you were having, I didn't actually figure you were drowning your sorrows in twenty-year-old Irish. Didn't anyone ever tell you, you want rotgut for that?"

"This is rotgut," Bruce said. "At least in my world."

"Every now and then I forget what a strawberry douche cake you are. We'll just stick this on your tab, shall we, because I am about to do you a solid."

"By disappearing?" Bruce was refusing to look at him. He was focused at some point on the dim back wall, hoping that if he only kept his jaw tight enough he could make the other man evaporate, by force of will. It was fortunate that Clark was the one with the gaze that could physically incinerate, and not him.

"By drinking with you, my friend," he said, and he poured himself a generous glass of the Jameson. "Damn," he sighed. "That is some smooth-ass shit."

"Please understand," Bruce said, and this time he forced himself to look at the man, putting everything he had into the gaze. "There is no amount of money I will not pay you to go away. Five figures? Six? There is no limit here. Please consider. This could be a life-changing moment for you." 

Jordan was just quietly laughing. "You're gonna pay me six figures just to leave you alone in a bar? Well damn. How much more could I make if I agreed not to tell Oliver Queen you were banging his old lady in the stairwell?"

The tally of possible ways to kill the man rocketed from fourteen to a hundred and ninety, before Bruce had even blinked. His jaw tightened to rock, his voice thrummed with hate. "Get out," he managed. "Get as far away from my face as—"

"Oh will you relax, like I give a shit," Jordan said, and he knocked back the rest of the whiskey. "Seriously, what do I care?"

Bruce watched him warily. He was pouring himself a second glass now, and too late Bruce reminded himself that Hal Jordan was never as bluff or as stupid as he pretended to be. The quiet brown eyes were watching him, over the rim of his whiskey. "So no lie," he was saying. "You think _this_ is rotgut? Come on, lay it on me—what's the most you've ever paid for a bottle of shine? Five hundred? Six? No wait, don't even tell me. I bet it was at some auction in Paris, probably a pre-war bottle that cost you fifteen g's."

Bruce said nothing. Hal savored the beginning of his second drink, then crossed his arms on the table and leaned into Bruce's space. "Stop looking at me like I have some ulterior motive," he said. "Because I don't. Truth? The truth is, I just wanted to say, I've been there. That is the God's own truth."

Bruce snorted contemptuously. "I'm sure," he said. "I'm sure the saga of you and your trailer-park mechanic's wife is a moving one."

"Well listen to you," Jordan said. "Get a little liquor in you and watch all that little rich-boy shit rise to the surface. You assholes really are all the same, aren't you? And by the way, my mechanic's wife is named Tricia, and my mechanic is named Linda. I get twenty-percent off my next oil-change if I throw a little business her way, so I'll give you her number if you want, you won't find better." He tossed back his second glass and slammed it down on the table, bottom up. "Get fucked, asshole."

"I apologize," he said. Jordan blinked at him.

"Wow," he said. "You really are drunk, huh?"

"Not nearly drunk enough."

"Yeah," he said. "I hear you. And when I said I've been there, what I meant was. . . I've been _there_. As in. . . _there_ there. Your situation in particular, not your situation in general."

Bruce fought the rising sensation of nausea in the bottom of his throat. Because Dinah had once shared an ill-considered moment with Hal, probably when she was having serious emotional problems, now he had to suffer the indignity of the man's camaraderie, and he dared to assume that they had something— _anything_ —in common. For cab fare home at this point he would empty the rest of the bottle over Jordan's head and toss on a match. 

_But isn't that what you were?_ said a voice inside him. _An ill-considered moment?_

"I have no interest in hearing about Dinah Lance's past errors in judgment, however egregious," Bruce said, turning back to his whisky. 

"I never said anything about Dinah," Jordan said. "That wasn't what I was talking about."

"You said—"

"I never said _Dinah_."

He really must have downed more of the Jameson than he had thought, that that one had taken him so long. He arched a brow, and Jordan gave a rueful shrug. 

"Not that often," he said. "Never so regularly that, you know, it means anything. He's always careful about that. But yeah, every now and again, Oliver decides he needs a little pick-me-up. A little guy bonding."

Bruce studied his drink. "I see," was all he found to say. He thought of all Dinah's careful honor, of all her integrity. It wasn't like he had been under illusions about Oliver's fidelity, before. But that the man would insult Dinah to that extent—that he wouldn't stop at their own best friend—the hard ugly part of him, the part that didn't bear looking at, wanted to duck into the men's room and call her up right now and say, _did you know, did you know what he's done, does that make any difference to you now._

"She knows, by the way." Jordan was watching him, those large eyes not nearly as drunk as they ought to be. "Knows, and it doesn't make a damn bit of difference to her. And this is what I'm saying to you, and it's just you and me in a bar, and no one ever has to know I said it, but Bruce. Those two. They are never, ever gonna leave each other. It doesn't matter what either of them does, and it doesn't matter how many other people get wrecked in the process, because for those two, there is only ever one other person in the universe that matters, and let me fill in the blanks for you in case you were not already there: it's not us."

He turned over his glass and poured himself another finger, and then he reached and poured twice that amount in Bruce's now-empty glass. 

"That may be true in your life," Bruce said. "I can't speak to your experience. But you are mistaken if you think those two are anything alike. She is nothing like him."

"You think so," Jordan said. "Well, I can see how you might think that. But it's like in that book."

"Book," Bruce repeated.

"Yeah. You know the one."

"I realize for you 'book' narrows it down considerably, but for most—"

"The one with all the rich people," he said. "You know, and the swimming pool."

He frowned at Jordan like the man might actually be insane. Maybe he was delusional. That would certainly explain the last twenty minutes. "You know what I'm talking about," Jordan sighed. "I can't remember the name. But there are these two married people, right, these rich beautiful assholes, and everyone's in love with them, especially this one guy, am I right, but then they skip town and blow everyone's lives all to hell. And there's this swimming pool, and this other guy ends up dead in it."

"My God," Bruce said. "I think you may actually be attempting to describe the plot of _The Great Gatsby_."

"Yeah, that's the one."

Bruce shook his head in slow despair at the state of the American educational system. They sat in silence for a long while, savoring the whiskey, taking slow sips this time. "Well thanks for the whisky," Jordan said eventually, when he had drained his glass. 

"Thank you for the very strange conversation."

"Oh anytime. There's always more where that came from."

"I do not doubt that's true." Bruce studied him through narrowed eyes. "So," he said. "Are you curious what non-rotgut tastes like?"

"I have to confess I am."

"Then let's see what you think about a twenty-five-year-old Bowmore. I saw a bottle behind the counter, and I'm thinking we can persuade them to open it up. You interested?"

"Line 'em up," Jordan said, with a wicked grin.

* * *

"Oh _fuck_ yeah," Jordan moaned. "Oh yeah, come on." He was impressively enthusiastic for a man who had just had his head banged unceremoniously into a wall, but then Bruce was several bottles of whisky past adequate depth perception, and it had certainly _looked_ like there was enough room. 

He was fuzzy on quite a few details after the Bowmore. Not the details of deciding to fuck—that was a no-brainer. Literally a no-brainer, as in no part of his actual brain went into that decision. But the details of leaving the bar and arriving at Jordan's apartment, that was considerably fuzzier. Exactly how they had moved from the parking lot at Jordan's apartment complex, to inside his bedroom—that was a total blank. But then there were these small anchors in time and space, anchors constructed from the noises in Jordan's throat and the feel of Jordan's body and the taste of Jordan's skin. Jordan's neck—right in the front, at the base. It tasted so. . . he pressed him harder into the wall to get a better angle on it. 

"I'm gonna fucking come in my shorts if we don't get into that bed," Jordan said, and the man had a way of cutting to the heart of a matter.

They were kissing again, and there was something about this kissing. It didn't hurt, at all. Why didn't it hurt? He thought he remembered kissing hurting, for some reason. He couldn't remember now. Nothing about this felt anything but good. Except maybe not, because—

" _Ow_ ," Jordan said, but he was laughing. "You bit me. You fucking bit me."

"Sorry," Bruce said, and he was laughing too. 

"Come here, asshole." And then he was being kissed, and that was much better, he really was far too drunk to be in the driver's seat here. He had been drunk even before Jordan had arrived in the bar. What would the word be for him now? 

Somehow he was on his back in the bed, and here was where time did a really interesting thing: there was another blank space when it came to actually getting in—falling in? collapsing on top of?—the bed, and getting—peeling? kicking?—their clothes off, but then at a certain point time began to slow. 

"How co-ordinated are you feeling?" Jordan said. Bruce was on his back, Jordan on top of him, and Jordan had begun a slow delicious grind.

"Not. . . very," Bruce managed. 

"That's what I thought," he said with a grin. He was reaching into a bedside drawer, emerging with lube. And then—a hand reaching behind. Hal was opening himself, and Bruce groaned to see it. "Co-ordinated enough to lie there, I hope."

Time slowed a great deal, in fact. Slowed, fractured, multiplied. He was lying on his back, and Hal was straddling him. Hal was riding him. They were naked, and Hal was riding his cock.

"Oh God," Bruce breathed.

"Yeah," Hal grunted. He bent down and Bruce laced their fingers together. He arched up, and Hal tipped his head back. Every minute of this he remembered for days, weeks. The alcohol made it a long, slow ride, but it was exquisite, and when he came it was with a rich groan that shuddered the walls, and the slow emptying of his balls had him panting, wrung for air—a twisting fist of pleasure, deep inside him. "Oh fuck, oh _fuck_ ," Hal moaned, and he came in Bruce's fingers—when had he started doing that, jerking Hal while he rode him? It was more that his fingers were a loose cage Hal was thrusting into, thrusting while he rode the thick swell of Bruce's cock, which was still dripping come. Hal's come slid down his fingers in long thick sticky ropes.

"Well goddamn," Hal panted. Somehow they were now lying on their backs staring at the ceiling, breathing hard. He wondered if he ought to sound the alarm, about that ceiling fan. It was tilting at an alarming rate. Possibly that was just the ceiling. 

Hal propped on an arm and smirked down at him. "Goddamn, Bats, but you are a hell of a ride."

"Same to you," Bruce said. 

"So tell me. Granted we're both drunk off our asses so this is maybe wishful thinking on my part, but by any chance are you more than a one-trick pony? Because if there's an act two, feel free to stick around."

Bruce thought about that one. "And if I say no," he said. "Is it your plan to kick me down the stairs to the parking lot?"

"I'll just tie you in the bushes and call a cab. No wait, I know—I'll call Alfred."

"You wouldn't."

"I would," he said, and he bent to Bruce's mouth. The kiss was long and slow and warming, heating his body all the way down, like his veins were soaked in single-malt. He had forgotten what it felt like, that sex could be this simple, this uncomplicated. 

"You are totally falling asleep on me," said Hal's bemused voice, and the voice was somehow as warm as the whiskey, as warm as the lips, and Bruce opened his mouth to protest, but he just slid deeper into the warmth.

"Oh yeah, definitely Alfred," said the voice, but it was the last he knew.

* * *

He woke to half-light and utter clarity.

He took a moment to catalogue his surroundings, and to sort his memories. It would be close to dawn, from the gray quality of light. Hal slept peacefully beside him, on his stomach. Bruce eased from the bed, slipped on boxers that appeared to be his. He was consumed by thirst—that would be the beginnings of the hangover, but he wasn't prone to them, and thirst along with a mild tightness in the head would be the worst of it. Had he chosen another life, his capacity for liquor might have given him trouble. As it was, it made possible a periodic release, one he had been in sore need of last night.

He padded to the kitchen for something to drink, keeping quiet so as not to disturb Hal. Memories floated to the surface as he stood at the sink gulping down water. He had been the one to lean in and kiss Hal, out in the alley behind the bar. _Okay, didn't see that one coming_ , Hal had whispered. 

It was funny to think about, the tangled web of interpersonal relationships in the League. He drank his water down and thought about the sordid truth. They were more telenovela than superhero material, the lot of them. He himself had slept with Clark, and Dinah, and now Hal; Hal had slept with Oliver, who slept with both Hal and Dinah, and of course if anyone was running a tally they would also have to include his own youthful indiscretions with Oliver, which probably meant that he himself was the little black dress of the League—the one everybody liked to try on. Well, once or twice. 

He glanced around the apartment, which was smaller than Jordan's salary should have allowed, but tidier than he would have thought. Not overtly tidy—there was a layer of genial disorder over everything, with some scattered jackets and flight logs and scribbled-up crosswords piled on the table. But underneath was an order and precision that clearly governed everything from the angle of sofa to coffee table, to the descending size of book spines in the bookcase. He picked up one of the crosswords on the little table. Last Thursday's New York Times, in pen, no corrections. Not bad. He wandered into the living room. What Jordan saved on square footage he clearly poured into electronics, because the TV and game console were new and state of the art, if a bit dusty. 

He wandered over to the bookcase by the window. The bookcase appeared to be some fifty percent flight manuals, along with a terrifyingly eclectic assortment of biographies, and no particular shelving system other than size ordering any of it. Something caught his eye on the bottom shelf, and he bent to have a look.

Vonnegut. No surprise there. Heller. Even less. Garcia Marquez—all right, that was surprising. In Spanish, which was definitely surprising. There was a new hardbound copy of Ishiguro's _Buried Giant_ , and a piece of paper sticking out the top of it. Bruce plucked it out. It was a folded piece of legal paper, closely-written, full of many underlinings. Illegible scrawling, most of it, and page numbers circled, starred. _Problematic as shit_ , read one of the notes, and Bruce started laughing silently. He tucked the note back in the book.

"Hello there," he murmured, looking at the end of the shelf, tucked behind some larger volumes: an entire half-row of F. Scott Fitzgerald, many of them early editions. 

He pulled out what looked like one of the oldest. It was a 1925 _This Side of Paradise_ , letterset and tightly bound, original dust jacket. There were three copies of _The Great Gatsby_ nestled next to it. 

"Well well," he murmured, and put _Paradise_ back in its place. He studied the books for a minute. Then he pulled out what appeared to be the most well-thumbed copy of _Gatsby_ , and looked at it. It was a cheap paperback with dog-eared pages, and a large swopping _H.W.J._ on the inside cover. He smiled to see it. 

He was still smiling when he pulled on his clothes in the growing grayish light. Jordan showed no sign of stirring. So Bruce did a little more rummaging in the kitchen, and left a handful of Advil and a glass of ice water by the side of the bed, in case the man woke with a headache the size of a whiskey distillery. On second thought, he went back and fetched the copy of Gatsby and propped it by the water. He rummaged for a piece of scrap paper in one of the bedside stacks of paper, and scribbled a hasty note:

 _Someone's a bit of a liar_ , he wrote. And at the bottom: _RBW_.

He left the note along with the Advil and the water. After all, not everyone had his gift with hangovers. He took a cab back to Gotham in the early morning light and the post-holiday stillness. He was still tired, but sleep was far away, and he fell into thoughtfulness on the drive back. The quiet of the drive was disturbed only by the single ping of his text alert.

 _And someone's a bit of a snoop_ , it read. There was some indecipherably convoluted emoticon following it which was either meant to represent a cocked eyebrow or a vomiting giraffe, and Bruce rolled his eyes at it. "You're eleven," he murmured, ignoring the curious glance of the cabbie. He slipped the phone back in his pocket.

It was strange, though, how the slight smile didn't leave his face, all that day.


	2. The Sensible Thing To Do

The sensible thing to do, of course, was not respond to the text.

It was a text, after all, and as such it required no response. It hadn't been a text that asked for a response. It had been nothing other than a reply to what he had said earlier. An offhand remark. The last thing he should do would be to text Jordan back.

So why was he considering it?

It was an office day, which meant at least half a day spent absorbed in meaningless paperwork down at Wayne Tower. His phone rested in between several stacks of papers — a lean black sliver that stared at him for most of the day. It buzzed at him only once, but he had known that call was coming. He hit speaker and continued to leaf through documents.

"What is it," he said.

"Just wanted to see how you were," Clark said. He had a tendency to mask irritation beneath apparent concern, but it wasn't all that masked today. 

"I'm fine," Bruce replied. "Why wouldn't I be?"

He heard Clark's exasperated sigh. He knew Clark would never say what he wanted to say, which was _I don't know, maybe because you sneaked off yesterday to have wild sex with someone you really shouldn't have?_

It was a shame he wouldn't say that, though, because then Bruce could say, _you're going to have to narrow that down_. He laughed softly to himself, imagining that exchange, and then forgot Clark's hearing was painfully acute, even through speakerphone. 

"What's so funny?" Clark sounded even testier.

"My life. Listen, please tell Lois thank you for yesterday. It was. . . a memorable occasion."

"More memorable for some of us than others, I'd say. But yes, I'll tell her, and thank you for coming, and for bringing everybody. Thank you for sending her those flowers today, too. That was a nice touch."

"Well," Bruce said.

"It was Alfred, huh."

"He is by far the most courteous member of the family."

"You don't say."

"For God's sake. Is there something you'd like to say? Because by all means." 

Clark sighed on the other end. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to — I'm sorry. Look, your business is. . . your business. But I'm your friend, and I can't help but worry when. . . all right, I'm shutting up now."

Bruce grunted in reply, and turned back to his papers. "Tuesday?" He said. Tuesdays were their day at the diner. It was also a way of saying everything was all right between them, and that he forgave Clark his intrusion. 

"Tuesday it is," Clark said. "Oh, and I forgot to tell you — guess which member of the Wayne family Lois fell in love with yesterday?"

"Tim can be very charming, when he exerts himself."

"Oh no, not Tim. _Damian_. She thinks he's — what was her phrase? Completely adorable."

Bruce did laugh out loud at that one. "I have my concerns about your wife," he said.

"You and me both. Okay, speaking of. We're taking the day off, and this is supposed to be spending time together day, so I'd better get off the phone before I get in trouble. But Bruce?"

"Mm."

"Seriously. Are you okay?"

He thought about that one, and was surprised by the answer when he found it. "Yes," he said. "I. . . am, actually."

"Good enough for me," Clark said. "Tuesday?"

"Tuesday," Bruce said, clicking off. He sat there, and spun in his chair to face out the window. November gray had rolled into the city below him, and there were spatters of rain on the vast glass wall of his office. It would be a bit worse than rain, before nightfall. His brain clicked through the checklist of things to look at on the Batsuit before the weather got too much worse. And as always, there was every winter's debate: was a millimeter's more insulation worth the fraction more of extra weight? So far the answer to that had been no. But the older he got, the less he was sure about that one. His hatred of the cold grew with every year.

He twirled the fountain pen back and forth in his fingers, lost in thought.

Texting back would definitely be a mistake. 

So he called instead.

Hal picked up on the third ring. "Hey," he said. "What's up?" Friendly as ever, but. . . curious? Guarded? 

"I was thinking," Bruce said. "Why Fitzgerald?"

"Well, that's a bit of a story."

"Yes, I'd bet that it is. Did you know that Hemingway sent him a draft of _A Farewell to Arms?_ "

"I did not know that."

"Well, he did. Fitzgerald sent him back ten closely-written pages of edits and notes. Hemingway sent him back a three-word note: Kiss my ass."

He heard the short bark of Jordan's laugh. They sat in silence for a few seconds, a silence that would have been the appropriate time for Bruce to say, _I had a good time last night_ , or whatever it was people said when they tried to talk about these things. Bruce had never had any success doing that. "I should probably apologize," he said instead. "I think I might have fallen asleep on you."

"Yeah, you did a little. But trust me, no apologies necessary."

"Well that's. . . good," Bruce said. "Listen, I was actually calling to see if you'd like to have dinner with me."

The small silence before was nothing to the heavy weight of this one. Bruce waited it out, while his jaw tightened. "Well there's something else I didn't see coming," Hal said eventually, in an entirely other voice.

"Is that a no?"

"Oh that's a yes. I was just offering commentary."

"Excellent. What would you say to around nine? I can do earlier if you'd prefer."

"What, like. . . today?"

"You have another day you'd prefer?"

"No, nine's good. I was just. . . nine's fine."

"Then I'll come by about six."

"Wait. . . six? How far away is this restaurant?"

"I have no idea, I haven't made any reservations yet. But I was thinking we could fuck first."

He heard the small choke of Jordan's exhale on that. "Well aren't you the classy guy."

"I am, in fact. And I do very much want to have dinner with you, but I don't want to be distracted by wanting. . . other things."

"Okay, that was moderately smooth. Listen, you and I both know this is a spectacularly bad idea, right? For like, a shit-ton of reasons. I mean, we're clear on that, yes?"

"Very."

"Okay, just so everybody's on the same page and all. So this six o'clock thing — am I gonna need to shower for that?"

"That's entirely up to you. But I can promise you you'll need one after."

Jordan laughed out loud at that one, and Bruce had a sudden flash of what that laugh looked like—head thrown back, white teeth flashing. _What the hell do you think you're doing_ , said the rational part of his brain, which was evidently just now returning from lunch. 

"I'll see you at six," Jordan was saying. "Damn, you're a hell of a lot smoother when you're sober, I do have to say."

"Other things are better too."

"I bet that's true for a fact. So out of curiosity," he said. "If I said I don't really feel like the whole six o'clock thing. . . what would that mean for the possibility of dinner?"

"It would mean I'd pick you up about eight-thirty, is what it would mean."

"All right," Jordan said. "Good answer, equally smooth. Six o'clock it is then. Don't be late, Skippy."

He frowned. "That. . . what did you call me?"

Jordan laughed again, even louder. "You're going to have to look that one up. Seriously, iTunes Top Songs, it's a real thing."

"I. . . all right."

"You realize you've got like two settings, right? Smooth, and awkward as fuck."

"I do realize that, in fact."

"All right, I gotta get back to work," Jordan said, but he could hear the smile still in his voice. It made Bruce want to smile, too, before he quickly clamped down on it. "One of us has to actually work for a living, and this tin ain't gonna push itself across the sky. See ya, Skip," and the line had clicked off. 

He stayed staring out the window for a long time, just holding the phone. So apparently, he had located the sensible thing to do, backed up, worked up some speed, and rammed straight into it at terminal velocity, blasting it to tiny irrecoverable pieces. He could call Clark back. _I've decided to get past my unhealthy attachment to Black Canary by having a great deal of sex with Green Lantern_ , he could say. _Your thoughts?_ Clark would choke on his leftover cornbread stuffing, which would almost be worth it.

He switched his phone on again. "Alfred," he said.

"Yes, sir?"

"I need some recommendations for dinner tonight. In the city. What about. . . no, I tell you what. Find out if the Algonquin has something at nine."

"I can try, sir, but on a holiday weekend—"

"It has to be the Algonquin," he said shortly. "You'll just have to make it work. And good job on the flowers, by the way. Thank you for that."

"I was sorely tempted not to sign your name. You ought to have remembered it yourself, sir."

"I know," he said. "I was. . . distracted. Thank you. And—about the Algonquin. What I meant to say was, please."

"I will do my absolute best. You see how much more easily things go with a little application of courtesy."

"Yes, sir," Bruce said, but the reproof made him feel strangely warmed, and he smiled into the phone.

It was strange, how the smile did not leave him, all the rest of that day.


End file.
